Autumn.

Strings of shining spider webs;

dew-drop sprinklings on sparkling grass;

curling leaves, turning brown;

burning dead and broken branches,

twigs and sprigs of withered shrubs;

digging borders, mulching soil, cutting back

and tidying the dead and dying things.

Morning chills in crystal air, carrying mist

from mouths and snouts of breathing creatures,

all lively now, not lazing or crazed

in the season of heat, of lingering days.

The nights are winning, now, the days

are winding slowly down. The seasons,

like man’s illusions, like earth,

sky, thunder, all come and go.

Renewal is never ending.

Nothing stays the same.

All things pass.

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